Dear Vincent

by Mandy Hager

  They take a seat side by side on Max’s big soft leather couch. I perch in the window seat, shivering now I’m away from the trapped heat of the sun porch.

  ‘I’ve been worried,’ Ms Romano says. ‘When you didn’t show up for school again this morning I phoned your mum.’

  ‘You woke her up?’ I feel sick.

  ‘It sounded like it. I guess you know she has no idea where you are?’

  Until now. ‘Clearly it’s not too hard to find me if she wanted to.’

  ‘She’s worried about you, Tara,’ Sandy says.

  I snort. ‘Yeah right. Did she tell you that she tried to ban me from visiting Dad?’

  They exchange a surprised look before Sandy replies. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad—’

  ‘She had me thrown out by security.’

  Ms Romano sighs. ‘Come on, Tara, you know that’s stretching the truth. She said you turned up in the middle of the night. That you were drunk.’

  ‘That’s quite some little chat you had.’ I fold my arms, tucking the evidence of my craziness against my chest. ‘Did she mention, by any chance, that she’s such a caring mother she failed to tell me my sister committed suicide?’

  ‘It’s not committed,’ Sandy jumps in. ‘That’s a leftover from the Crimes Act when—’ She stops herself. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Let’s call it what it is. My sister tied a rope around her neck and jumped. And why, I hear you asking? Damn good question.’ They’re clearly shocked. ‘Maybe Mum told you that too? How she and Dad ignored Van’s letters begging to come home.’

  ‘I thought she died in a car accident,’ Ms Romano says.

  ‘So did I.’

  In the silence Sandy strangles the handle of her bag. I hope she’s picturing Mum.

  Ms R looks so sad. ‘Okay, clearly there are some big issues that need sorting out between you, but what about school? Please — you can’t throw the towel in now.’

  ‘Why not? It’s not like I’m learning anything.’ I slap my head. ‘With everything that’s going on it’s impossible to think straight. And as for university, I’m never going to earn enough—’

  ‘But with a scholarship …’

  ‘Look what I’m painting …’ I point through to the sun porch. ‘You really think they’re going to pass that?’

  ‘Please, Tara, you need to listen to me for a moment —’ I open my mouth to argue but she continues — ‘without jumping in.’

  I shrug. It seems I have no choice.

  ‘Do you know what your old school said when you first came to us?’

  I shake my head. If she wants silence I can give it to her. But I’m worried now. What if they said that I’m not right? You didn’t speak for months … and now you hear voices in your head. It’s a dead cert.

  ‘They said you are exceptionally talented. That they’d never had another student as naturally gifted at drawing and painting as you.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ Does she really think I’d fall for that? ‘They just say those things to make themselves look good. They have to justify the fees.’

  ‘Look, Tara …’ Her nose is turning pink, as it always does when she gets flustered. ‘You don’t just have to take my word for it.’ She scrabbles through her briefcase and in her rush to prove her point tips the whole thing on the floor. Papers, books and pens spill everywhere.

  I bend down and scoop up a jumble of papers. Her diary too. The pages are splayed open and a date on one of the blank pages leaps out at me: July 12th.

  ‘Here it is.’ Ms R thrusts a printed page at me. ‘My old flatmate’s the head of Fine Arts at the university. I emailed him some photos of your work. Read what he said.’

  I stare down at the printout but all I can see is that diary date. The anniversary of Van’s death. How could I have forgotten?

  ‘Well?’ she says. ‘That should clear up your doubts.’

  I blink to refocus. Force myself to read the words.

  Cheers, Bella. You’re absolutely right. She really is the real deal. Make sure she applies to us — I don’t want the competition getting to her first! I’ll make a note to keep an eye out. Thanks for the heads-up.

  ‘It doesn’t change the fact that it costs money to go,’ I say. I almost wish she hadn’t shown me. It’s like putting a four-course meal in front of a starving man, then whipping it away.

  Now Sandy adds her two cents. ‘I’m sure your mother will help you find a way to deal with that. She’ll want the best for you.’

  I laugh, but it’s not kind. ‘Good point, Sandy. Mum’s done everything she possibly could to make my life one nice big easy stroll in the park.’

  She bristles, blotches blooming up her neck. ‘Clearly it’s not been, Tara, I grant you that. But how are we supposed to help you if you keep it to yourself?’

  She’s got a point. Why didn’t I ask for help? ‘Maybe I thought that when you knew I had to work half days and care for Dad it would be obvious.’ This sounds whiny even to me. Pathetic. Was I waiting for the grown-ups to solve everything?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tara,’ Ms Romano says. ‘I thought by giving you some space — and an open door — that if you needed me you’d ask. I had no idea until last week just what a state you’re in. Please let me help.’

  She captures my hand and I don’t dare pull away, even though my grazes throb in protest. ‘I’m sorry too. You’ve been the only good thing about the whole place.’ She squeezes her thanks as I draw in a shuddering breath. ‘But I can’t come back.’

  I feel her slump but I’m still distracted by the date of Van’s anniversary. If that was a sign, what does it mean? Once your hands are in mine, I’ll be sure they’ll not sever, Van sings inside my head.

  ‘I think I need to see the place Van died,’ I blurt. ‘Somehow get to Ireland.’ How much time is there? About four weeks? ‘Right away.’ They’re looking at me like I’m nuts. If only they knew. ‘I could use my savings.’

  ‘But your schoolwork—’ Ms R starts.

  Sandy halts her. ‘Actually, Bella, I think that’s probably a really good idea.’ Both of us stare at her, agog. ‘I think Tara’s right. She needs to work it through and find some kind of closure so she can move on.’ Now she directs her gaze at me. ‘Have you someone you could go with? Or someone you can stay with while you’re there?’

  I can’t believe they’re taking this seriously. ‘Well, there’s Dad’s brother, Royan, in Belfast. Van was staying with him and his family before she died.’

  ‘Is he the kind of man to help you?’

  His letter is etched into my brain. She’s a fine girl with more brains than all of us put together … ‘Actually, I think he is.’

  Now she turns to Ms Romano. ‘What if we got her a dispensation to take a few weeks off — until after the holidays? I’m sure there’s a good case for compassionate leave.’

  Way to go, Sandy! ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you could find out.’ That’ll get them off my back for now. ‘Did you tell Mum where I am?’

  Beside me Ms Romano stiffens. ‘Not yet. But I’m hoping you’ll tell her yourself. If I get asked officially I’ll have to say.’ She glances from Sandy back to me. ‘Please, Tara. I’d hate to be forced into that position.’

  I do my best to look as though she’s talked me round, but I’m damned if I’ll give her any verbal assurances. I stand and walk her back through to the sun-porch door. As we approach the painting, Ms R stops to study it.

  ‘You’ve really got the feel of his brushwork now. It’s quite extraordinary.’ She gives me a quick hug. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She smells of perfume and sweat.

  Sandy presses a business card into my hand. ‘Here’s my number. Ring me if there’s anything I can do.’

  I watch them walk away, embarrassed that they made the effort. Then I lean in the doorway, soaking in the sun. As for dashing off to Ireland … though my heart strains towards it, who’s to say Uncle Royan’s really any better than Dad? Or that he’d even want me
there, given his experience with Van.

  BEFORE I LEAVE FOR work, I take a page out of my sketchbook and make a little thank you card for Johannes. I prop it on the upstairs doorstep. He must wonder how the hell he got caught up with me. I’m glad he did, though. I really like his calmness. And the fact he talks about interesting things. Compared to Louis … I shudder and swallow back a gag reflex.

  Mad though it is, I’m looking forward to talking through the Ireland idea with Max. If there’s anyone who understands the push and pull, it will be him. But I’ve only just walked into his room when one of the other nurse aides comes rushing after me.

  ‘There’s a woman at reception to see you.’

  Mum! Ms Romano’s phone call will have shamed her into looking like she cares.

  She’s crumpled from lack of sleep and wearing baggy trackpants and an over-sized tee-shirt. Her hair shows grey along the roots. Vonda, on reception, is all ears.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Your teacher rang.’ She says it like she thinks I’ll freak.

  ‘I know. I’ve sorted it.’ I make to leave.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ The steel reinforcing in her voice breaks through. ‘Outside for a moment. Now.’

  Vonda’s loving this; she’s stopped her work to watch each volley like we’re slogging it out at Wimbledon. I storm through the doors to escape her glee.

  As soon as we’re out in the car park, Mum’s away. ‘You know I could get the police onto you. Make them bring you home.’

  ‘I’m seventeen, Mum. You have no say. Besides, why bother? This way you’re free to spend time with lover boy.’

  Her lips purse. ‘Leave it, will you? You have no idea—’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t, would I? Nor does Dad.’

  ‘You leave your father out of this.’

  ‘You clearly have.’ The familiar band of pressure tightens around my chest.

  ‘Listen, Tara—’ she stops, her voice less strident when she goes on. ‘I didn’t come here to argue.’

  ‘No? That would be a first.’ I know I’m winding her up, but I don’t trust her motives any more.

  ‘Brendon suggested that you and he should meet.’ A tinge of pink breaks through her mask.

  For a moment I’m completely stumped, panicky. By naming him she’s confirmed his status in her life. ‘Okay. Let’s make it at Dad’s bedside, shall we? That seems appropriate.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Tara—’ Her civility collapses, fingers bunching into fists. ‘You think you’re so grown up, so high and mighty, arty-farty, la-de-da. I’ve worked my arse off to give you every opportunity … and have you thanked me? No. You think I don’t know you’re ashamed of me — and of your father. You and your sulky silences …’ Like she can bloody talk.

  That’s it: the gloves are off now. ‘Did it not occur to you, Mummy dearest, I was grieving for my sister? You know, the one you couldn’t wait to scrap all signs of? The one who begged you to come home?’

  ‘You think I wanted to leave her there?’ She’s shouting now. Two seagulls eating rubbish off the asphalt are startled into flight. They reel away, their harsh squawks echoing hers. ‘I thought she’d be better off, what with your father and all.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Mum. You’re such a bloody liar.’ Something presses into the small of my back and I jump about half a metre in the air. ‘Shit!’

  I spring around and there is Max. ‘Tara, my dear.’ He sounds as if he’s talking me down from a ledge. My pulse starts to slow. He smiles at Mum. ‘Is this your mother?’ Propelling his wheelchair towards her, he offers his hand. ‘Of course it is. Mrs McClusky, I’d have known you anywhere. You and Tara could be twins. Max Stockhamer.’

  ‘Professor Max Stockhamer,’ I correct him.

  Mum wipes her hand on her trackpants, then takes his. Classy. ‘Kathleen,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet the mother of such a beautiful and gifted young woman.’ He lowers his voice, all intimate. ‘She’s swept my grandson quite off his feet.’

  My face burns. Poor Johannes would be mortified. All I’ve been is a complete pain.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Mum scores a perfect ten for ironic delivery.

  Max clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your catch-up, but I believe Tara’s needed inside.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll be off then.’ She takes a step towards me as if she’s going to hug me. What a fake.

  ‘Bye then.’ I spin Max’s chair around. My blood pressure is almost back to normal when the doors swish shut behind us. ‘Thanks.’

  He waits until we’re out of Vonda’s range, then brakes, his eyes two icicles. ‘That was hardly constructive, Tara.’

  ‘You see what she’s like, she’s—’

  ‘Like her daughter.’ What? ‘Stubborn, hurting and hot-tempered, it would seem.’

  ‘Must be the Irish genes,’ I say, trying to deflect the sting. I’m so ashamed.

  ‘Would you accompany me around the block while I indulge in a cigarette or two?’ he says. ‘I’ve already got the all-clear from Angela, so long as we’re back within an hour.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I’m relieved to see Mum’s gone by the time I sign us out. Max immediately lights up and I wheel him in silence as he puffs away. He stops me outside a small suburban café with a tiny courtyard garden for smokers out the back.

  ‘Coffee?’

  We settle and he lights another cigarette. Says nothing.

  Eventually I crack. I really need to talk to him. ‘So, what was it that finally persuaded you to go back to Vienna after all those years?’

  He sips his cappuccino, then places the cup back onto the saucer with slow deliberation. ‘Actually, I had a breakdown.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  He smiles. ‘I’m not.’ He inhales deeply and puffs out a smoke ring. ‘You know, in many ways you remind me of myself. I thought I could compartmentalise the issues in my past. Then I discovered that the things we stuff inside the suitcase of our soul and think we have secured with chains will one day tumble out. The chains just can’t survive the constant strain.’

  ‘You’re not kidding there.’ My baggage has been tied in place by Mum and Dad’s strict control. By my own wimpishness.

  ‘The thing is that once the chains are broken, we can never stuff these things back in. We must unpack the baggage piece by piece; shake all the wrinkles out; try everything back on for size.’

  ‘Let me guess: you’re going to say that when we do, we discover they no longer fit?’

  ‘Exactly! And then we can discard them and replace them with a much more appropriate and comfortable set of clothes.’

  ‘Nice metaphor,’ I say to deflect another lecture. ‘So, did returning to Vienna help?’

  ‘Eventually — though it was terrible at first. But the more I talked it over with my few remaining relatives and friends, the more I came to realise I’d been blaming myself for things I had no control over.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. You were only a kid.’

  ‘That’s my point: nothing I could have said or done would have changed the course of history. I couldn’t bring back the dead. Nor could I have saved them in the first place. It was only once I’d accepted my own frailties for what they were — wrong place and time, no more or less than that — that I started to edge back to some kind of equilibrium.’

  I want to tell him I know what he’s referring to but daren’t for Johannes’ sake. ‘I had this crazy thought this morning,’ I say instead. ‘That maybe if I went to Ireland and saw where Van died it might help.’ It will, Miss T. You’ll see.

  ‘I dare say it would.’ He downs the last of his coffee. ‘For what it’s worth, it’s a very sensible idea, in my opinion.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Do you have the means to go?’

  ‘I’ve saved nearly three thousand towards uni.’ Thank god for all those double holiday shifts.

  ‘My
advice is that you should be making this decision with your mother. While I think it’s a sound idea, you mustn’t go spending all your money. You belong at university — anything less would be a dreadful waste.’

  ‘But you’ve seen how badly I get on with Mum.’ I struggle to keep out the bitterness.

  ‘Our mutual friend Vincent would say, What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?’

  I groan. ‘That’s a low blow!’

  Max grins — I reckon if he still had legs he’d click his heels like von Trapp. ‘Whatever it takes, my dear. Whatever it takes.’

  AFTER WORK MY BRAIN is whirling with so many different conversations and scenarios I’m far too wired for sleep. I climb the back stairs to Johannes’ flat and tap on the door. He greets me with a smile.

  ‘Hey. Thanks for the card.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate all your help.’

  ‘I’m going to put it somewhere safe. One day it’ll make me rich!’ He sweeps the door open. ‘Come in. You’ve saved me from murdering another essay.’

  I step inside, struck by how similar the two apartments are. More Persian rugs and walls of books. More gorgeous antique furniture and stunning art. ‘Wow. You’re so lucky to have grown up with all this.’

  He scans the room. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ He motions for me to sit down. ‘Fancy a drink? I was just about to make a hot chocolate.’

  ‘Okay. Why not?’

  I settle in a corner of a comfy white linen-covered couch and tuck my legs up under me. There are more subtle feminine touches than downstairs: the curtains made of something soft and filmy, so long and full they sweep the floor; wispy mohair throws in jewels and pastels draped across the chairs. A framed photo of Max, Johannes and presumably his mother sits in pride of place on the mantelpiece of an authentic art deco fire surround. A bevelled diamond of mirror glass is mounted at its centre, surrounded by a fan of wood exactly the same colour as Johannes’ hair.

  He returns with two brimming cups, marshmallows bobbing on top of frothy cream. He sits down next to me and raises his. ‘Cheers.’